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reddeadtrash · 5 years

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Ghosts

Summary: There is something strange about the woman they find in the winter wilderness. She is cold, unwavering, and strangely menacing. Arthur Morgan finds himself pulled in by that vivacity. Unbeknownst to him, she knows many things that elude this cowboy. Like magnet to metal, no matter how far he throws her away, he always finds himself going back.

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OC

Rating: M

Word count: 3297

A/N: For those of you who know me from fanfiction.net, yes it is I, jjboivin. I have a main account for marvel, but yo, this Arthur boiiii has got me fucked up so let’s do this.

PROLOGUE: WE’RE MORE GHOSTS THAN MEN

I got a woman with eyes that shine Down deep as a diamond mine She's my treasure so very rare She's made me a millionaire

Arthur slipped into his coat, watching as Dutch and Micah got onto their respective horses. The wind picked up and it became hard for Arthur to keep his hat on as he stepped out of the little shack, his gloved hand keeping the rugged hat in place. Blue eyes scanned the white horizon as he climbed onto his mount; a black stead borrowed from one of the guys.

“It’s not far Arthur!” Dutch bellowed over the wind and snow. Some flakes have caught in his black beard, ice forming on the tips of his long hair.

Micah closed in behind Arthur. “We found the first O’Driscoll-infested house and it went fine,” Micah cackled. “Found a darling little peach-Sadie that is. But otherwise, got to kill some stupid O’Driscolls.”

“What’s to say this ain’t gonna be the death of us?” Arthur replied, steadying his horse.

Micah smiled, and it cut his stupid face in half, and Arthur would give his left hand if it meant he could carve his knife into Micah’s face.

After they’d found Mrs. Adler and killed the entire lot of squatters at her house, they’d heard wind of another place. Arthur was surprised to hear from Charles that there might be another home available to raid. Only thing was that he suspected O’Driscolls had taken over, as these parts were in their complete territory.

“Here’s the plan!” Dutch bellowed. Arthur gave Micah one last glance from under the tip of his hat, then moved his horse alongside Dutch’s. “We need to find a way to spy in on the house. Not like last time. Almost got myself killed! So this time, we sneak in, and if we can make it, we go in. On my orders!”

With that, Dutch, Arthur, Charles, and Micah rode off into the blizzard. It was a long ride. Tenacious. Snow seemed to get into every nook and cranny of Arthur’s clothing. No matter which way he placed himself, freezing bits of ice found home on his warm skin. Shivers sliced through his body as they headed uphill, his gloved-hands gripping the reins of his stead. The cold made his mouth dry, the skin of his lips cracking under the mask he’d pulled over his face.

From the top of a hill, with snow beating against his face, Arthur saw the little house. Wooden built, two small barns out back, and a coop that was clearly being used for storage. From his vantage point, Arthur also saw the dim glow of a candle through a window.

“Here we are boys!” Dutch reared his mount. “Let’s go!”

They rode down the hill like wind. Fast, harsh, and tenacious. Arthur left his mount hitched on a tree just beyond the eyesight of anyone watching from the house. The four of them marched in the knee-deep snow until Arthur could not feel his feet anymore. He made a small mental note to go hunting for pelts.

Dutch grabbed Arthur by the shoulder, brought him close. “You take the back with Charles,” he grumbled, “and Micah and I will take each side.”

With a quick nod, Arthur dipped his hat and started his way towards the back of the house. Charles close by, they trekked through the snow. The two men were slightly jealous of the clear warmth of the house, proved by the thin sliver of smoke coming from the chimney.

“You think we’ll find anything interesting in there?” Charles asked over the deafening screech of the wind.

“We need food,” Arthur replied. “And money. Anything we can grab in there is useful. If we can grab ‘em off dead O’Driscolls, even better.”

That seemed to satiate Charles, and the men went back to the task at hand.

Arthur crept along the wooden wall until he came beside the window. Strangely it was opened, seeping warmth, the smell of cooking meat, and the voices of many men within. Frowning, he leaned against the wall and slid down, gaining more range to what he would hear.

“They’re on the run, anyway,” one was saying. “It’s going to be hard to find him.”

“You’ll need a trap,” this from a voice closer to the window.

Charles crept until he was standing on the corner, eyes on Arthur and Dutch.

“If you’re looking for ‘em, sweetheart, you’ll never find ‘em,” One added.

Sweetheart? Arthur frowned, looking at his comrade with a skeptical look. There was rustling noise, clearly more than two bodies. A cough. A groan.

“So you came to us to find him?” A new voice. Made a total of three unknown bodies.

“Let the little lady have her fun, will you?”

Arthur’s eyes locked with Charles’. The latter’s eyes went round not only because that had been a new voice which added to a total of four O’Driscolls but also because there was a woman in there. Six individuals, one of unknown intention.

Arthur quickly crept from his perch to join Charles. “We need to get a move on,” he grumbled. “There’s a woman in there. Possibly young by what I heard. She could be in danger too.”

“That ain’t our problem, though,” Charles said tentatively. Arthur had once been in the opposite situation, where he hadn’t given any cares for saving ladies. Now was different.

Ignoring him, Arthur trudged in the snow to find Dutch. The latter was peaking through a window, the slight glow of candles illuminating his face; long, straight nose, dark-set eyebrows.

“There’s a woman in there,” he said once Arthur had reached him. “There’s no guards outside. They’re drunk. It’ll be easy.”

They regrouped in front of the house, just lightly to the side where no one could see them through the window. Arthur’s heart was beginning to hammer into his chest. No matter how many times he’d done robberies or infiltrations, he couldn’t stop the way his body reacted every time. Sweat in places he didn’t know he could make sweat. Trembling lips. Racing heartbeat. His hands, however, always remained steady.

“Sweet and easy, boys,” Dutch grumbled.

Like ghosts, they pulled from the shadows. Four men, hats dipped over their eyes, masks covering their faces, melted from the darkness. The glow of the candles illuminated the powerful bursting of invaders within the home. Wood tore from the hinges of the door, glass shattered from the bullets firing from guns and missing their targets. Bodies moved with practice; fire, reload, aim, kill.

Little explosions ripped from the weapons being used to survive. The entire cabin was filled with noises of death and murder. Blood splattered from open wounds, brains staining the wood of the walls. Candles blew out from the wind screeching in from the open door.

At the end of it, Arthur still stood beside the door, Micah, Dutch, and Charles to his left. Arthur’s gun was smoking, aimed at the last O’Driscoll he’d shot. His chest was heaving as the blue of his orbs caught the candlelight, scanning, until he met the woman surprisingly still sitting at the kitchen table.

Arthur had seen may women in his time. Not that he was old. He’d bedded some. Played with some. Talked with many. He enjoyed the company of many women, as he was not unfamiliar with the likes of them. He loved their bodies, obviously. He could enjoy the warmth they could bring to him, the release, the entirety of being touched. He’d loved only two.

Needless to say, Arthur had seen many women in his lifetime. But her. She could easily be the most beautiful woman he’d ever lain eyes on.

Even though her hair was the color caramel (brunettes were more his type) and her eyes were black as midnight, Arthur was stunned for a second. His eyes came to rest on the smooth planes of her face, the slight redness of her cheeks, and the fullness of her lips. His body started to tingle. Fingers itched to smooth the tension from her eyes, to feel the plumpness of her mouth.

Then he snapped out of it. He aimed his weapon at her.

“Woah, there, cowpoke,” Micah grumbled. The rest of the boys had holstered their weapons. Only Arthur was still armed and ready to fire.

Risking one last glance at the woman, Arthur carefully holstered his weapon. He lowered his mask, revealing the small itch of a beard to the warm air of the cabin. That’s when he saw the strangeness of the entire situation.

The woman, not much older than her mid-twenties, was hogtied to the chair. Feet and hands, unable to hurt anyone or defend herself. What was stranger, however, was what she was wearing.

Arthur had nothing against women wearing pants. But those were pants he’d never seen before. Loose and tight all at once, exposing curves. Pockets on each side of her thighs. She also wore leather boots, which had to have cost her a colossal amount of money. A loose cotton long sleeve covered her upper half, the material a dark blue. She wore no coat or any coverings to hide her from the ferocious weather.

She was also gagged.

“What in the hell?” he groaned.

She was struggling against her bonds, her swan-black eyes stuck on him of all people. Arthur’s skin tingled again. Sweat coated her forehead, which was surprising, given the weather. Her caramel locks, so long they fell beyond Arthur’s eyesight, were messy and clearly needed a brush.

“Charles,” Dutch barked, “get her talking. Micah, loot the bodies.”

As they watched Charles take the humid gag from the woman’s mouth, the hairs at the back of Arthur’s neck stood on end.

There was something vicious in her eyes. Something he’d seen many times; it had stared back at him and he’d stared at it right in the face. It was the same vivacity, the same tenacious anger he’d harbored into his own soul. The way the world had hardened him, he could see the reflection of it now within the blackness of this girl’s eyes.

“Lady!” Dutch was saying, trying to catch her attention. But she was staring at Arthur. “You’re going to be okay now. We just want to ask you some questions.”

Arthur began looking around the house. He couldn’t take her heavy stare, the perpetual blackness of her orbs, the emptiness of them. They had come here to rob, take what they most dearly needed, and be on their way.

“Madam,” Dutch continued. By now, the wet gag was hanging from her neck. The girl exercised her jaw, eyes finally finding home somewhere else. Arthur was relieved of that. “We won’t hurt you. I promise.”

She made a sound deep in her throat that took Arthur by surprise. A growl?

“Really, miss?” Dutch added. “You are safe. I swear it.” When Arthur looked back at her, she was staring at him once again. She had deep-set eyebrows, thick and curved over her eyes. Her nose was small and straight, as if cut from a knife. Just over the fabric of her shirt was a long and elegant neck. This woman was made to either be a circus actress or a singer, not alone in the winter wilderness with O’Driscolls.

“Nothin’ on these boys,” Micah grumbled, throwing away useless papers he’d found on the bodies.

Dutch sighed heavily. “Micah, take upstairs with Charles,” he ordered in that baritone voice of his. “Arthur, stay with me and little miss… something here.”

“I think she wants to stay mute,” Arthur grumbled. Charles and Micah headed upstairs, not with their usual banter. The girl seemed to take Arthur’s comment with anger.

“Before we untie you,” Dutch said, “would you like to tell us your name?”

Her black eyes slid from Arthur to land on Dutch. Her brow furrowed and something quick and menacing flashed in her features, but it was gone quickly. Arthur had enough a mind of his own to put his hand on his revolver. The girl was still tied to the chair, but something slick was crawling up on Arthur’s flesh.

“Arya.” Her voice was hard, like frozen rain when it hits the roof of a house. Arthur remembered what it was like to huddle beside his son, listening to hail hammer on the roof. Mesmerizing and terrifying all at once.

“That’s a pretty name,” Dutch added. “Where are you from, Arya?”

She frowned deeper. Jokingly, Arthur imagined that if she wasn’t tied, she’d try to stick it Dutch one way or another.

“I’m from… Delaware.”

The hesitation was not what got to Arthur. Yes, she could be lying about where she was from, but didn’t lie about their origins occasionally? What triggered something in Arthur was the accent. Sweet, low, and something he’d never heard. He’d been around enough to hear all kinds of accents, but this was something he’d never heard before.

It seemed like Dutch thought the same thing. “Never new folks in Delaware spoke with such an accent,” he joked, a smirk cutting his face.

The woman – Arya – jerked her chin. “If you would be kind enough to untie me,” she said, her accent still catching Arthur off guard, “I’d like to go.”

Dutch put up his hand so fast, even Arthur didn’t see it. “Now, now, little lady,” he grumbled. “I’d just like to know why the O’Driscolls had you tied up like fresh meat.”

Silence filled the room. Arthur took off his gloves and passed a hand over his face. “We just want…” he trailed off, meeting her dark gaze. Shivers ran down his spine. “It ain’t like the O’Driscolls to leave a woman… untouched.”

Dutch cleared his throat, albeit awkwardly. “Why were they questioning you?”

Again, that defiant chin jerk. “Because I was following them.”

The admission was surprising. A woman following the O’Driscolls?

“You’re the law?” Arthur asked, perplexed.

Arya made a weird gesture with her mouth, scoffed out, “do I look like the law to you, gentlemen?”

“Then why were you following them?” Arthur pressed. He put both palms on the table, leaning closer. This time, with the glow of the candlelight, he could see freckles on the bridge of her nose. It made him think of his younger days, when he himself had a wash of freckles on his cheeks. Only two remained, however.

“They could bring me to the man who murdered my brother,” she admitted coolly.

Dutch stirred. “Colm?” he asked.

She veered her icy glare on him. Shrugged. Bit the inside of her cheek. All with the allure of utter viciousness. “Yes,” she replied. Something in the way she stared at Dutch made Arthur believe she was hiding something. Either it was the answer to Dutch’s question or something else altogether, Arthur didn’t want to know.

“Then, little miss Arya-“ Dutch began.

“Don’t call me little,” she growled.

Dutch smiled widely, like Arthur had never seen him do. “Oh, I like you,” he bellowed, pointing at her. “If you’re planning on getting your hands on Colm O’Driscoll, then you should be riding with us.”

Arthur straightened, looked at his boss with shock. Wasn’t he the one that said to stop bringing strays in?

“Do you have information on them?” Dutch continued.

“Dutch!”

Micah ran into the kitchen, his eyes wild with bloodlust. Arthur’s skin crawled.

“I see some comin’!” he panted. “Three on horseback, maybe more!”

Dutch considered that for a second, before jumping into action. “Go back upstairs with Charles and hold the windows,” he ordered. “Arthur, take the back of the house. I’ll take the front.”

“I can handle a weapon, you know,” Arya said. In the little mess, they’d all forgotten about her.

“The little lady speaks!” Micah cackled, but cowed under the growl Dutch gave him, and scurried up the stairs.

“Arthur,” Dutch grumbled, “untie her. Give her a gun.”

The order was banal and so unbecoming of Dutch. Give a woman a weapon? Could she really handle herself?

Arthur did as he was told, however, and used his knife to cut her bonds. Up close, she smelled of lake water and fresh air. Her wavy hair was soft against his cheek as he brushed on it to free her ankles. And when she stood, much smaller than he would have guessed, she looked up at him with a deep frown. “You gonna give me a gun, or what?” she growled, still with that accent of hers he couldn’t place.

Grumbling, he handed her his revolver and took out his rifle. “Cover the windows,” he said lowly. When she turned and walked away from him, he could see how her trousers hugged her curves and he knew that if this woman accepted to ride with them, Miss Grimshaw would have a field day with her.

The shooting started not long after. Micah would be heard upstairs, roaring his pleasure from the top of his lungs. Windows and glass broke all over again. Wood splintered and shattered, curses thrown in the air like confetti, and one thing was sure, that little Arya was fending for herself good enough.

When it was all over, and the house was once again rendered a total mess, the five of them stood in the kitchen. Arya stood near the entrance, still gripping Arthur’s revolver. The latter was panting beside Dutch in the kitchen. Charles and Micah were staring at the woman from their perch in the stairs.

“Little lady knows how to shoot,” Micah taunted again. His blonde hair was stuck to his sweaty face, and when he stuck his tongue out to lick his lips, even Arthur shivered in disgust.

“Call me little again, and I’ll show you just how good I can shoot,” Arya growled, turning to face Micah.

Just then, the door burst open. A gush of wind blew across the kitchen, cold and brutal. A lone O’Driscoll, desperate and terrified, came staggering in, aiming aimlessly around the cabin. In a movement so quick and precise, Arya had wormed her way into obtaining that man’s knife. Arthur was readying to draw and save her life, but the woman had sunk the knife so deep in the O’Driscoll’s throat that blood was already pooling on the wooden floor. The body made a sickening thud as it hit the ground.

The silence didn’t last long, but in it, Arthur saw no evidence of fear in Arya’s face. She was stoic, brows pulled, lips puckered, as she sheathed the knife into the belt of her trousers. She wasn’t even trembling.

“Okay!” Micah laughed as he jumped down from his perch. He strolled by Arya, giving her a light tap on the shoulder. “I like you.”

Dutch was laughing too. “You’re welcome to come with us, miss,” he said, then gesture to her bloody hands. “We could use someone like you.”

Her silence was answer enough. She was strangely attractive, with blood speckled on her face, anger written all over her features, hair in a mess.

“Arthur, you can ride with her.” Dutch’s command brought Arthur out of his reverie.

He was not pleased by that. He didn’t want to get any closer to the strange vivacity of her. It seemed like it would pull him in, too.

He gestured for her to follow him. She grabbed the O’Driscoll’s coat and followed him out into the still-raging blizzard.

Arthur’s mount waited for them at the stable. Everyone mounted, Micah yapping on about something that seemed to displease Charles, because they were going at it. Arthur was more concentrated on the woman he was currently gripping by the forearm and helping up onto the saddle, in front of him. He wasn’t comfortable with having her behind him yet. When she moved her legs so she could straddle the horse, Arthur frowned deeply. Could this woman get any stranger?

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reddeadtrash · 5 years

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Ghosts

A/N: Hi. As you will see, there are scenes taken directly from the game, so here I am with my well overdo disclaimer.

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING PERTAINING TO RED DEAD REDEMPTION 2 AND ROCKSTAR GAMES. EVERYTHING PERTAINING TO RED DEAD REDEMPTION 2 IS NOT MINE AND OWNED BY THE MAKERS AND PRODUCERS OF THE GAME. I ONLY OWN MY OC, ARYA.

Word count: 4476

Pairing: ARTHUR X OC

RATING: M

CHAPTER THREE: THE GLOVES

Angels come down from the heavens Just to help us on our way Come to teach us, then they leave us And they find some other soul to save

Arya had prepared herself for the long journey ahead. Sitting each side of her hips were two pistols, hanging loosely from a hard leather belt. Around her thigh, strapped tightly, was a six-inch hunting knife. The blade glinted in the light of the sunset.

The girl knew the mountains were strenuous, so she packed a few extra layers onto her saddle. She took care to bring a rifle and a shotgun. However, as Sadie had said, train heists would require only revolvers, for close-up shots. Beside her weapons, Arya had packed some food, water canteens, and her bedroll. To affront the weather in the mountain side, which would be chilly, she wore a woolen poncho with a red blouse underneath.

Horseshoe Overlook was a cozy little camp. Arya, after living for such a long time in a house, wasn't used to sleeping under a tent flap on the hard ground. But now, after a couple of days to settle in, she had gotten used to it. Afterall, after the death of her brother, she had spent a long time by herself, camping out in the middle of nowhere.

Here, however much Sadie cried herself to sleep, Arya felt safer than whenever she had camped out alone.

The only person that made her skin crawl in such a strange way was Arthur Morgan. Whenever the gunslinger was around her, somehow, the girl followed him with her eyes like a hawk. Even the man himself had started to worry about her. But the few days that they'd been here, they had had minimal to no contact.

"Mount up!" Dutch's command made Arya frown, his voice so shrill and deep. She hated men who gave orders out like candy. But to get to the man who killed her brother, she had to stick with this gang. They both wanted to get their hands on the O'Driscolls. This was her best lead in months.

Back when she'd first found her brother dead, she had had a lead that Colm was somewhere near Saint-Denis. She'd spent about three months in that dump, trying to find him, coming up empty-handed. Ever since that lead, she'd been dry. Only after a drunken O'Driscoll boy, who'd wanted to impress her, had opened his mouth about the whereabouts of his camp did Arya have a real lead. That lead her to the mountains, in the snow and cold, tied to a chair and gagged.

And now she was here, with the setting sun at her back, mounting her red-wine colored horse, about to go rob a train.

The plan was simple. They were to ride up north for a few hours until night fell. When they were at the foot of the mountain, they would set up camp and sleep. At the first signs of morning light, they would ride to the ridge and wait for the train. Bill would detonate the dynamite and off they'd go.

The dirt skidded under her mount; Rori, a fierce female. She rode ahead of Sadie and behind Micah. Ahead of them all was Bill, Charles, Arthur and Dutch. Behind, holding the back, was Lenny and Javier.

They rode hard. Arya's horse was not used to her new master, and so often Arya had to reassure her. The sun set behind the western mountains, waking up the thousands of stars overhead. As they rode, more and more of the little spectral explosions appeared. Arya rode with her eyes on the stars, on the darkness of the sky. The further they went, the cooler the air became. The wind ripped at her braids, loose strands of hair tangling on each side of her face. Her cheeks were beginning to burn from the cold as they rode harshly for the mountains.

They had been riding for a few hours. Arya's butt was beginning to burn from the saddle, her thighs already numb. She wrapped the poncho tightly around her neck and was currently sporting her mask to cover her cheeks from the biting cold. Ahead of them, looming, outlined by the stars, was the mountain. Snowy tops, rocky descents, and grassy bed at the bottom.

They made for the slop between the range, where grass grew plentiful and the slope provided cover to anyone who wished to attack. The latter would be surprising, thought Arya, as she knew no one lived in the lifeless lands at the foot of the mountain. She'd spent weeks camping around these parts, skinny, starving, and sleeping on the rocks. Nothing but weird birds and coyotes had come to bother her then, so she doubted anymore, or anyone, would come now.

"Let's set up camp quickly!" Dutch ordered from ahead.

The night's ride had worn them all down. Sadie was disheveled and panting as she slid down her mare. The woman was usually a chatter-box or a crying mess, but now she waddled to a lone rock and simply sat down on it.

Arya, her eyes roaming the gang as they all dismounted, found that she held sour thoughts towards the so-called leader. He was not fully off his own horse that he was already bellowing orders here and there. Set up the campfire there. Don't make it too big. Have the rations spread equally but give me my own cut first. All of this was making the blood boil within her veins.

Deciding to ignore the orders, the brunette climbed down her horse and unpacked the things she brought. She lay her bedroll beside Sadie's, feet facing the campfire that Charles was setting up. Then she put on her woolen coat, that she'd taken from the "boy's clothing", as Grimshaw would say, and the mittens she still had from Arthur.

Her eyes rose quickly as she realized who the gloves belonged to. The man was setting up his own sleeping arrangements, far away from the others, secluded from the warmth of the fire. The young woman took a deep breath and marched across the grass incline to him.

He gave her a side look when he sensed her beside him, his eyes covered by the rim of his hat. She saw him purse his lips, awkwardly scratching the underside of his chin. He was wearing a black long coat over a black vest and white blouse. His hands were bare.

"These are yours." Arya threw her hand out, fingers clutching the gloves.

Arthur shrugged, turning his back to her as he patted his horse. "Keep 'em."

Arya's sigh was heavy and loud. "Would you just take them?"

By the way Arthur turned, he was pissed off already, but nothing had time to come out of his mouth. Dutch was clambering towards them both, arms wide, his dark coat making him almost melt in the shadows. Arya's skin prickled and she recoiled from Arthur, withdrawing her hands within the warmth of her coat pockets.

"Arthur, you should take first watch," Dutch said, then his eyes met Arya's. "Oh, miss Reed, how are you?"

"Fine."

She turned and left, leaving the two men alone in their own corner of bitterness.

When she sat down on her bedroll, she saw Sadie smirking, flames of the fresh campfire reflecting off her face.

"You gotta keep 'em now," the woman rasped. "They'll keep your hands warm anyway."

Arya huffed. Then she slid her hands into the gloves, marveling at the warmth, and lay down in her roll. The night's ride got to her quicker than she thought. As soon as her eyes were watching the stars, the ones she used to watch with her brother all that time ago, she began to feel the effects of sleep tugging at her.

Arthur's hands were freezing. He hugged them under his armpits, but after a while, his hands had flattened out. To keep watch, he decided to sit near the fire and warm his hands, all the while looking out for intruders.

He didn't know these parts of the Grizzlies. Coming down from the mountains, he hadn't seen hide nor hair of anyone. He doubted they would be deranged during their short slumber.

Arthur sat between Lenny and Dutch. Scooting towards the fire, Arthur reached out to warm up his freezing fingers. As he did, he caught sight of his brothers around the fire. Javier sleeping in a ball, Charles on his back, and Micah twitching and groaning in his dreams. Arthur thought about smacking him, but that would wake everyone up, as the blond gunslinger was not one to take a slap quietly.

Dutch slept on his back, his hat over his eyes. The leader of the Van Der Linde gang snored in his sleep.

With a smirk, Arthur continued to scan the little group. Bill laying flat on his back, belly up to the stars. Sadie slept on her side, the form of her body waiting for someone to spoon her. Arthur didn't doubt she used to sleep cuddled up to her husband. How that woman had been so destroyed after the death of her husband. She still cried herself to sleep, Arthur knew, and heard. He'd been up one night, wandering the camp, when he heard the sniffles coming from her tent.

Arya was sleeping on her back, face up to the sky. Something in Arthur was telling him to skip over her, not to linger too long. But he watched the soft flutter of her lashes, the slight twitches of her full mouth. She was dreaming, he could tell, by the way her brows furrowed, and her lips moved. She looked soft, however. Slightly illuminated by the fire, her skin seemed silky, but what was more appealing for Arthur was the softening of her features. Her perpetual frown was replaced by a look of peace. He'd only seen her smile once, and that had made his insides feel like steam. Looking at her now, features as peaceful as calm waters, he began tingling all over.

He groaned lowly in his throat. What was wrong with him? She'd punched him in the crotch. She made him feel like something was wrong all the time. Arthur knew his gut feeling was never wrong, so why was he staring at her longingly while she slept?

A couple hours later, he woke up Charles to take the next watch.

Arya woke up to the sounds of camp life. Groggy with sleep, eyes watery and mouth dry, she stretched into a sitting position on her roll. Around her, people were drinking coffee, packing their horses, or just talking in hush whispers. The sky was dark grey, and when the young woman looked east, she saw that the sun hadn't broken through the horizon yet.

Sadie handed her a hot cup of coffee, which the brunette gulped down quickly. Before she knew it, the young woman was back on her horse, holding the reigns, still wearing Arthur's gloves.

Those God damned gloves.

Arya rode with Sadie behind the entire group. The young woman found solace in the widow, who might have a big mouth but also had wise words. There were only two people that she actually trusted and liked within camp. Hosea and Sadie. Everyone else was either too innocent or made her insides whirl with turmoil.

"You ever rob a train, Arya?" Sadie asked. Her horse was a big thing, dark with white splotches. Its breath came out in stuttering white puffs.

"Never," Arya answered truthfully, an awkward smile on her lips. The girl had never done anything bigger than a house robbery. That had been back when her brother was alive. The pain of his memory was a sharp pang in her chest, and she had to swallow it down with a harsh gulp.

"Ever pulled the trigger on someone?" Sadie continued.

Arya smirked. "Of course."

The ridge was not far ahead. They rode hard until they all stood on it, hands to the reins of their horses, white puffs of air lingering before their mouths. The sun was bright and harsh on the eastern horizon. Clouds, white as snow, hung heavy in the clear blue sky. The train track zigzagged through the grassy lands, from the south, through the thick underbrush of the Cumberland forest, and right under their feet. At their backs, the tracks wound up through the mountain.

"Bill," Dutch grumbled, "get the detonator ready."

Bill clambered down towards the tracks.

"Everybody else, let's get ready to hop on." Dutch looked at his comrades under a heavy brow. "Arthur, Micah, you take the front. Lenny, Charles, and Javier, take the top of the train, make sure there's no surprises. Sadie and Arya, you get the back with me."

The waiting was the hardest part for Arya. They stood beside their horses, just inside the tree line. Bill had his hand on the detonator. Arya had her heart in her throat. How hard could it be to rob an entire train?

"You and me, Morgan," Micah taunted, crystal blue eyes menacing from under white brows.

Arthur showed teeth. "Great."

Micah cackled. "Have you got a problem with that?"

"Not if you keep your head for once," Morgan mumbled under his breath. Arya almost laughed.

"Enough!" Dutch bellowed. "You're going to blow our cover! Now remember, take care of the guards. We're only after Leviticus' private car."

"Who the hell is Leviticus anyway?" Sadie asked. Her hat was tipped low over her brow, covering the nasty gnarl she was keeping inside after hearing Micah taunt Arthur like that.

To think of it, everyone was wearing a hat except Arya, whose head of hair was braided each side of her head.

"Some rich guy who deals oil and sugar," Dutch answered. "Hosea seems to think going after him is not a good idea."

"It would do us all good if we listened to Hosea," came Arya's mumble.

All eyes turned to her. She felt the many pairs on her skin like cigarette burns and she averted her own eyes from them all.

"New girl's got some ideas of her own, huh," Micah drawled. Arya's skin crawled when she met his eyes; those light blue orbs that looked like she was staring death right in the face.

"Well, she ain't wrong." Arthur caught her eye just as he said that. Blue met black and Arya held in a breath for a split second. Then the man rose a brow and Arya's mind splintered.

For a second, she was staring at a black and white picture, words scribbled on the side, dark ink oozing in and out of her focus. Life sounded around her; the buzzing of voices, the shuffling of feet. Breathing. Laughing. The whirlwind of life.

And then she was slammed back here, the cold biting her cheeks, Arthur's cerulean blue orbs puncturing holes into her sanity.

"If we had all listened to Hosea in Blackwater," Arthur continued, "we might still be there without a bounty over our heads."

"The next person to mention Blackwater doesn't get a cut from this," Dutch growled, rearing his horse in front of them all. He scanned the faces before him; five men and two women.

"Dutch!" It was Bill, waving his hands.

"Alright, masks on boys," Dutch ordered. After a beat, he added, "Ladies."

The low and slow whumpwhumpwhump of the train echoed in the distance. With each new beat, Arya's heart hammered harder within her chest. Her palms started to sweat inside Arthur's gloves. She brushed her bandana over her nose and tied it tightly behind her head.

The detonation of the dynamite made Arya's teeth rattle. The explosion made wood splinters and dirt rain overhead. The bright orange of the flame almost blinded her as she kicked her horse forward, rushing out of the trees with everyone else. Smoke curled upward in thick twirls; choking and charcoal black.

She had time to see Arthur, Charles, and Micah dismount, arm their weapons, and head towards the very first wagon of the train. She reared her horse to follow Sadie and Dutch along the edge of the train. Already, gunshots echoed behind her. She heard the footsteps of Javier and Lenny on the roof.

"Get on, ladies!" Dutch yelled.

Arya slipped down her horse, grabbed her shotgun, and followed behind Sadie. The trio ran along the edge of the train, weapons aimed, eyes round and focused. They entered the first wagon, which was filled with cargo crates and empty barrels.

"Take cover!"

The first shot rang in Arya's ears as it zipped by her head. The young woman ducked behind a crate, her weapon crushed against her chest.

Dutch was half-hidden behind a barrel, leaning out to shoot at whoever was shooting back. Sadie was taking cover at the door, taking in shots whenever she could.

Arya peaked over the crate, aimed her weapon, and fired as a figure broke in through the other end. They dropped, a bloody hole gaping in their chest.

And on they went. It wasn't hard. Arya's heart was pumping ferociously in her chest, but her aim was deadly. Wagon after wagon, the trio washed through it like a knife through butter. Arya's mind became a tunnel. Wood splintered and scratched at her face. Blood, her own and not her own, spotted her cheeks like freckles. She kept going, never looking at the bodies, stuck in a wheel of kill or be killed.

When they reached the last wagon, Arya's mind seemed to come out of the cloud. She looked around at he bodies strewn behind them. She didn't feel anything but the soft sting of seeing so much blood.

"It's locked." Sadie punched her fists against the metal sides of the wagon. "We're comin', assholes!"

Dutch jumped down from the wagon, breathing in sharply. Arya followed behind him, still clutching her shotgun.

"Let's wake 'em up, ladies," he sighed.

Arya traded her shotgun for her revolver. Sadie laughed while reloading her rifle. Shots began to ring in the air as they peppered Leviticus' wagon with bullet holes. The sun was shining so bright by now that light streams peered through the holes in the metal. Arya thought the light streams were beautiful.

When the trio had stop firing shots, the rest of the gang caught up to them. First Micah, breathless and laughing through that stupid blond mustache of his. Then Lenny and Javier, guns hanging loosely in their hands. Arthur clambered through, black coat open, mouth parted as he made a headcount. Finally, Charles deigned everyone with his presence.

"Everybody alright?" Charles breathed.

Micah cackled once again. "I'll be alright once I get this money." His voice made Arya's skin tingle with goosebumps.

Everyone, Arya noticed, was speckled with blood. No one seemed to care.

"Anybody hurt?" Charles insisted, ignoring Micah's idiocy.

"Yeah, everyone is fine," Sadie rasped. "Now let's get 'em."

Simultaneously, they marched up to the last car, where shadows danced behind the bullets holes still steaming.

"What are you boys planning on doing in there?" Dutch bellowed, his voice mellowed down to a such a softness, it was as if he was talking to a bunch of children. "Listen to me, we don't want to kill any of ya. I give you my word, but trust me, we will." He was pacing, ranting, his red and white mask molding to his face. Arya followed him with her eyes, aware that he looked much at ease in this position of predator.

"I work for Leviticus Cornwall!" came a shrilling cry from inside the wagon. Shadows danced again behind the open wounds in the metal.

"Come on boys!" Dutch insisted, but Arya couldn't help but think that his insisting was not very heart felt.

"We got our orders!" came the same shrilling voice. Arya's fingers clenched around her pistol. Wind gushed harshly against them all. The smoking holes in the metal of the wagon seemed to call out to them. More! they said, more!

"Okay!" Dutch yelled. "You asked for it!" He started to count down from five among the courageous outcries from whoever was leader inside the car.

Around her, the men and the woman began to feel restless, like hyenas waiting for lions to leave the carcass. Breaths reeled in. Weapons cocked. Feet rustling. Micah was smiling broadly. Charles was clenching his teeth so hard, muscles in his jaw were twitching.

"Seems our friends have gone deaf," Dutch concluded, sarcastically pitiful. "Wake 'em up a little!"

This time, Arya's revolver stayed by her side. Everyone else was carried away in spraying more wounds into the metal of the wagon. Whatever writing had been there before was now interrupted by steaming holes. Cries echoed from inside. Shadows stopped dancing. The sound of a firefight sent birds scurrying into the vastness of the blue sky.

No one noticed that Arya hadn't shot a single bullet. She was staring at Dutch from under the thickness of her dark brows, something menacing written all over her features. No one noticed that either.

But Dutch turned back half a second before everyone had stopped shooting. His eyes met hers briefly, black to black, one pair wide the other narrowed. Then time seemed to retake its course. Dutch exhaled sharply.

The gunfire ceased.

"Mr. Williamson," Dutch said calmly, his gaze turning to Bill, "give Mr. Morgan and Ms. Reed some dynamite. You two go blow that door open."

There was something strange passed between Dutch and Arya as Bill pushed dynamite into her opened palms. Dutch stared at her, expressionless, seeming to tell her, see, look what I can make you do.

She hadn't fired her gun against the car a second time, but she would sure be forced to blow it up.

Arya ignored the dark shiver that sliced down her spine and walked toward the car. She stuck the dynamite against the door, careful to avoid any eye contact with Arthur. She let Arthur light the sticks and ran back to the line of men and a woman waiting by the tree line.

The explosion was small and contained, but still, Arya felt it rattle her bones as if they were strung to a cord and left to blow in the wind.

Once they had successfully blown a hole into the side of the wagon, everyone, including Arya, held up their weapons. One after the other, Leviticus' men stepped out of the car, hands up in surrender.

"Alright, come on, just walk on out here," Dutch ordered. "We don't want to kill you. We just want to rob your boss."

The gang seemed pleased to let Arthur, Lenny, and Micah search the train for the money. Arya kept back, weapon aimed at the men sitting on the ground, hands to their heads. Many of them, she noticed, were young.

Briefly, and so harshly she felt it in her stomach, she was reminded of her brother. He was not much older than these young gentlemen when he had bled out as she watched crimson seep through the slants in the wooden floorboards. She saw him, her brother, hair the same color as hers, matted with red. His eyes, green as the forest in midday, lifeless and unblinking.

Time shattered and slowed and dipped. Nausea gripped her insides and the girl swayed. And then, as swiftly as she remembered her dead brother, she remembered the photograph. Black and white. Ink on the sides with dates. Her own painted fingernails scratching at the sides of the old picture.

A voice at the back of her head said, "Legends."

Then time went normal. The bright sun cooking her skin. Weapon aimed at a young man trembling before her.

And Arthur staring at her from the open mouth of the car, his lips ajar. She saw the slight frown on his face, noticed how his eyes did a once over on her. Then, as if on instinct, his blue eyes found Dutch, and so did Arya, just to find out he, too, was staring at her.

"You alright there, Arya?" Dutch asked, and if the young woman forced herself, she could probably hear the forced thoughtfulness in his tone. "You're looking sick."

"I'm fine." She cleared her throat, regained her senses, and holstered her weapon.

"Got anything?" Sadie hollered, rushing up to the train.

Micah jumped down with a satisfied sigh. "Just some papers about the man's business in the safe," he drawled. "Arthur found some bonds. Good money, I guess."

Arthur handed the bonds over the Dutch, who gripped them eagerly and looked them over. "Oh, yes, bearer bonds," the man said. "We can sell them pretty easily."

"That's some good money, I reckon," Sadie added, pleasing smile on her pretty face. Her and Arthur shared a smile.

Dutch motioned to the three boys on the ground, shivering and trembling in both fear and cold. "Arthur, do with them what you please," he groaned, eyes scanning the bright horizon. "Kill 'em, set 'em free, just make sure they don't send anyone after us."

Arya's finger clenched into fists. She stared at Arthur, really stared at him this time. The shadow of a beard that made his jaw look sharper than a blade. The fullness of his mouth. Strict cheekbones. Thick eyebrows. Long strands of sandy hair tucked behind his red-tipped ears. A look of submergence all over his features.

The young brunette had lain lives to rest many times before. She'd seen light leave the soul. All of this, only after the death of her brother. But she had never once, ever, taken the life of an innocent. She had never once taken the life of a surrendering man, on his knees, quaking in fear.

Arya saw in the eyes of those three men how the terror gripped them. Stuttering breaths. Staggering gazes. Not one of them, however, pleaded.

She stood there, watching Arthur, aware that everyone else was getting on their horses without a spared glance. They didn't care that they were leaving the fate of three men in the hands of Arthur. Three men balancing on their fates. One man obliged to choose which way the toll fell.

"We'll see you back at camp, Arthur." Dutch's baritone voice made Arya look up, taken from her fervor. Dutch was staring at her, willing her back onto that horse of hers.

She climbed onto to it quietly, feeling heavy, like the side of the balance that Arthur had to choose.

"The rest of you!" Dutch yelled, his voice loud in Arya's head. "Let's ride!"

Arya's horse sputtered to life, racing along with the Van Der Linde gang. She was apart of them now. Her road to redemption was cut; impossible. She had to remain with them to finish her road to vengeance.

When she looked back, seeing the black silhouette of Arthur before the three men, she wondered on which path that man was walking.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan x ofc #arthur morganxoc #arthur morganxofc #arthur morgan oneshot #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #angst #rockstar games

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reddeadtrash · 5 years

Text

Ghosts

GHOSTS MASTERLIST

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OC

Rating: M

Word count: 4022

CHAPTER FIVE: A DIFFERENT KIND OF LONELY

I bow down to pray I try to make the worst seem better Lord, show me the way To cut through all his worn out leather

As soon as they had made it back to Horseshoe Overlook, Arya was rushing across camp. Arthur hot on her heels, following her, couldn’t keep the smile off his face. She went straight to Hosea, who was bent over a few pieces of paper.

“Hosea!” Her voice was filled with joy and something that she hadn’t felt in a long time. Eagerness.

The young woman and Hosea had been quite the pair ever since her arrival within the gang. She was curious and asked a lot of questions. He was happy to teach and loved her eager demeanor. Often, she would spend the night curled into herself, perched beside Hosea, listening to whatever story he had in store for her. Sometimes he’d show her photographs. Other times, he’d show her maps.

“Hosea, I think we’ve got something good!”

When the man lifted his head, he was met with her smile; bright and enthusiastic. The sun was setting behind him – orange and bright – and as he got to his feet, the light behind him seemed to shift along with him.

“What is it?” he asked.

Arya beamed. It had been so long since she felt on the cusp of something this big. She didn’t mind that she was smiling so long and so fully. She didn’t mind that Arthur was staring. She cared even less that Hosea seemed astonished to see the pair of them together like this.

“I think we discovered something good in Valentine,” the girl went on. “The clerk at the Hotel – Miles – is harboring some big fancy boys from Saint Denis, who will be trafficking oil.”

Hosea scratched the bottom of his chin, a gesture that resembled Arthur’s way of contemplating. “You want to do a scam?” Hosea asked, blue eyes down to slits in concentration.

“I know we need to work out the details,” Arya answered. “But this sounds good, right?”

Hosea looked over at Arthur. The former seemed to be gaging just how good the entire ordeal was by Arthur’s facial expression. After a second of silent observation, Arthur just shrugged. “She’s onto something,” he grumbled.

“That man, from Saint Denis,” she eagerly pressed, “he said that his men and their wives will be coming by in three weeks. They’ll stay for a week, and once they have the oil, they’ll ride down to the docks on the Saint Denis coast. That’s where the money will be.”

Hosea’s entire face lit up. Wrinkles split at his eyes and creased around his mouth, but despite his old age, he looked stunning against the orange backdrop of the sky. “A good ol’ fashion money scam,” he beamed. “You guys will need me to work out some details before, and to ask around those I know in Valentine. You should also assemble a team. We need people to be those fake oil receivers in Saint Denis. We also need to know to who they are selling the oil to.”

Arya’s heart was hammering. Her cheeks hurt with smiling so hard, and the insides of her palms itched with anticipation. “So this could work?”

Hosea laughed. “This is definitely goin’ to work.”

She nodded so hard she feared her head would spin off her body. “Thank you,” she breathed. Hosea shook his head and waved her off, sitting back down at his table.

Later that night, she found herself sitting at the edge of the cliff. A small fire crackled at her feet, her legs outstretched towards the warmth, her back pressed against the trunk of a tree. Beside her, on each side respectively, was Sadie and Arthur. Above them, stars sprinkled like salt along the darkness of the sky. In front of them, the vastness of the world, the drop of the cliff, and the sweet breath of the wind.

They had shared some stew. They had shared some quiet and quick jokes. Arya was content with them both at her side. She wasn’t one to express fondness, but she would gladly say that their company made her feel safe.

Arthur grumbled as he got to his feet.

“Old man’s goin’ to bed,” Sadie joked. She was stretched out on her side, leaning on her elbow.

“I ain’t even that old,” Arthur answered, his voice deep in his chest. In the darkness, with the soft glow of the flames, he looked young. Arya stole a glance at his face; shadow of a beard, sharp jawline, high cheekbones. He had the rare wrinkle around his eyes, but his sun-reddened skin didn’t have any evidence of old age.

“Says the man who grumbles as hard as Hosea to get to his feet,” Sadie mocked again, throwing her head back to laugh. Arya smiled, picturing Hosea as he always was, grumbling about painful knees.

“I’m just grumblin’ because I’m tired!” Arthur protested. When he saw that both women were having none of his shit tonight, he shook his head. “Ah, leave me alone.”

Arya laughed. Arthur’s eyes snapped to hers quickly, and she caught the look of curiousness that crossed his features. “Just admit you’re an old man, Mr. Morgan,” she chuckled.

“I’ll admit it when I’m dead,” he fussed. Arya watched him wobble on his feet slightly, readjust his hat, and wave. “You ladies have yourselves a good night now.”

Sadie scoffed. “Sleep well, Arthur.”

“Night,” Arya mumbled.

His retreating footsteps were the sounds of scrunched leaves under boots. Arya kept pace with his breathing until it disappeared in the darkness, in his tent.

“You know he likes you, right?”

Arya’s head snapped to the side, black eyes meeting Sadie. The latter was now curled into herself, staring right into the flames. “What?” Arya asked, clearing her throat awkwardly.

“He’s sweet on you,” Sadie added, meeting the other woman’s eyes with a wicked grin.

“Arthur?” Disbelief made Arya’s voice sound high-pitched.

Sadie rolled her eyes. “Who else?” The fire crackled as silence took over for an instant. “He definitely fancies you.”

Arya shook her head, an elfish grin on her lips. “We’re friends,” she tried to justify.

“I don’t think he knows that,” Sadie answered bluntly.

Arya shrugged. Shook her head. Curled her legs in defensively. Sadie was one of the only people that she trusted among Arthur and Hosea. Everyone else… well, she knew.

Sadie and Arya being friends didn’t mean that Arya liked having someone poke around her life, nonetheless, her romantic life.

“I think he’s just lonely,” she whispered, avoiding Sadie’s glare. “If you weren’t a widow, he’d probably fancy you too.”

“He might be lonely,” Sadie answered after waving the other girl off. “But lonely men think with what hangs between their legs. They only come to you when they don’t want to be alone. And usually, that leads to some sort of physical contact. But Arthur’s loneliness is different. He… he longs.”

Arya could feel heat bloom in her chest. Anger. Fear. It mixed like mud, and her breathing became ragged, and the more she thought about it, about him, the more she saw it. The longing. The yearning.

“He’s a sad man,” she said, her voice sounding like a dead end. A conclusion.

Sadie scoffed. “He ain’t sad when he’s with you.”

Day break was like any other. John, Bill, and Arthur had gone hunting for the midday stew. Grimshaw and some ladies were fussing around for chores. Pearson had some leftover meat he was hanging to dry. Dutch and Molly hadn’t left their tent yet. Abigail was sitting on a log by the edge of the cliff, Jack hanging on her knees as she tried to give his hair a good brush. Lice tended to spread fast in these parts.

Everything was normal. Everything was quiet.

Arya was in her tent when she heard the first yells. They weren’t screams of help or alarm. They were screams of astonishment and fear.

The girl rose from her bed, where she’d been reading, enjoying the morning coolness before the heat came in. She rushed out, dressed in black pants and a matching black union shirt. Her eyes, as dark as night, searched the grounds around her.

Pearson had stopped hanging the meats and was wobbling strangely away from his wagon. At the entrance to camp, where Pearson was headed, three horses stood away from their usual spot. Arya saw Abigail, wailing, with Grimshaw holding Jack back from whatever had happened. Beside them, on every side, was everyone else.

“John, you idiot!” Abigail yelled, and Arya saw her hand fly and land, the sound of skin on skin echoing.

Javier burst out laughing.

“It ain’t his fault, Abigail!” Bill came crashing out of the crowd, front of his checkered shit bloodied. Dried crimson cracked on his neck and hands.

Someone was hurt.

For a brief, a very brief instant, Arya’s eyes searched for Arthur. She couldn’t find him, what with everyone crowding around the horses.

The smell of blood had the horses whinnying and stamping their hooves harshly onto the grassland. Arya’s first instinct was to get everyone out of their way.

“Move away!” she ordered, and the ease with which she slid into this role, of leader, felt almost foreign. She pushed people out of the way, out of the horses’ way, and found Arthur. He was holding John up by the waist, the latter looking sickly and deathly pale. One look, a once over, brought Arya to the conclusion of what the hell was going on.

John’s hand was covered in blood. Crimson oozed out and dribbled onto the grass at his feet. Arthur’s own hands, up to his wrist, were smeared in red. The front of his shirt was speckled, as if he’d been in the very near vicinity of what had happened to John.

“What happened?” Arya asked, stepping forward to examine the wound. John’s hand was mangled, as if bitten, but none of his fingers looked badly hurt.

“The idiot decided to have a hand-to-hand combat with a bear,” Arthur grumbled.

“Yeah, an idiot, that’s what you are, John Marston!” Abigail cried from behind.

Arya turned. Stonefaced and calm, she said, “I’m going to need you all to move back. We have to get him somewhere warm and quiet. All this fussing isn’t going to help him.” Abigail seemed to be personally vexed by the young woman’s statement. She fumed, picked up Jack, and scrambled away.

“The boy don’t need to see just how much of a fool his father is!” she screamed.

John, in his state, didn’t seem to care at all. His head of dark and messy hair hung low, his chin grazing his chest. Form all the blood loss, Arya didn’t know just how long he had.

Quickly, she undid the scarf around her neck. She tied it tightly around John’s affected wrist.

“Let’s get him to lie down,” she ordered to Arthur. “Miss Grimshaw, I need a bucket of clean and warm water. I need clean cloth and keep it coming. No one is bothering me, okay?”

Grimshaw, frowning, said, “Who put you in charge?”

“Does anyone know how to fix John’s mangled hand?” Arya challenged back. “Does anyone here know how to make sure he can use his hand and his fingers again? Didn’t think so. I got this.”

Dutch appeared suddenly, while Grimshaw scurried off to pertain to Arya’s many requests. Dutch seemed out of his wits. He tried cajoling John, but the latter was in and out of consciousness, leaning heavily on Arthur.

“Oh, dear boy,” Dutch mumbled. “What can I do to help?”

Arya wrapped one of her arms around John’s waist to help Arthur carry the injured man to her tent. “Have someone bring me small wooden sticks and a sewing kit.”

Dutch grumbled something, but Arya didn’t hear. John was heavier than he looked and carrying him was harder than she thought.

When they got to her tent, she made Arthur lay her newest patient onto her bed. She unrolled the flaps and closed them, so no one could see in and she could have all the peace she needed.

“Arthur,” she commanded, “bring me a stool.”

He left without a word, and for the first time, she was alone with John. She could asses his wound properly.

The center of his hand was bitten through and through. She had no idea if the bones had been touched, moved, or crushed. She hoped not the latter, because that meant John would never recuperate fully. His fingers were mangled, but it looked mostly like claw marks. Thick gashes, the meat red and burning, the bone opened and exposed. His wrist was bruised and bloodied with a few marks, but she suspected it was more a sprain than a broken wrist.

She had a lot of work.

Arthur came back with the stool. She sat beside John and waited. Grimshaw came and went a few times. She brought first the cloth, then the water, and lastly, she brought a needle and a roll of thread. She left without a word.

Arthur was the only one that Arya allowed to stay.

“How are you going to fix it?” he asked, as he watched the girl examine the wound.

“Do you have whiskey on you?” she asked. After a few moments, Arthur handed her a half-filled bottle. She took it graciously, took a swig, and poured a generous amount of it all over John’s mangled hand.

The injured man woke with a howl of pain so great that it resonated painfully in Arya’s ears. “There he is,” Arthur grumbled, taking the bottle from Arya’s hands and having a taste of it as well.

“What the hell!” John screamed. He was trying to curl his hand in defensively, but Arya held it down.

“I’m going to help you,” she was saying, but John was shaking, tears of pain in the corner of his eyes, his entire face contorted in effort.

Arthur came around and held John down by the shoulders.

“John!” Arya demanded her patient’s attention. “This is going to hurt like a bitch, but I’m going to fix you. You need to stay still.

By then, John’s entire body was trembling. He was white and weak from blood loss, and Arya didn’t doubt that sooner or later, he would lose consciousness again.

“Arthur, put this between his teeth,” she said, handing the man a wad of cloth. Arthur frowned, seemed puzzled, but when he saw Arya begin to toy with John’s hand, he stuffed the wad into John’s mouth.

The girl, bent over in concentration, blood sticky on her fingers, uncurled John’s fingers. He screamed behind his gag, thrashed under Arthur’s hold. She picked up some more cloth, damped it in warm water, and slowly began washing the wound.

Against the sharp screams of John, Arya explained what she was doing to Arthur. “I’m going to wash the wound,” she said. “I used the alcohol to sterilize it and my hands. I’m going to do by best to sew him back up, but I’m not sure if the bones in his hand, here, are crushed or unaffected. I would need… never mind. Then I’m going to use some sticks to make sure the bones, if crushed or broken, heal in their right place. My priority right now is to stop the bleeding. Once he’s all sewn up and I’m all done with the sticks, the key is to keep him fed and hydrated.”

By then, she had washed most of his wound. John was still bleeding badly, but she had gotten the dirt and grass out of his injury. She poured more whiskey onto it, and with that, John was out like a light.

Arthur relaxed and walked back to where he’d been before; behind Arya, watching over her head.

Slowly, painfully, she started to sow John’s hand back. She’d swab at it with a damp cloth sometimes, or alcohol, and then go right back in. She was so concentrated that she didn’t even notice the whispers outside of her tent, or the growing darkness around her, or the heavy hunger in her stomach. Dark, swan eyes were focused solely on the bleeding and horrible gash. Her mind was a haze of medicine. She didn’t even feel anything around or in her.

She carefully placed his fingers and hand upside down to sew his palm up. Then she spread his hand over a small pillow and began working with the sticks. Arya placed them each side of John’s fingers and tied them with rope. She used more cloth as cautionary measure on his sprained wrist, which had turned black and purple – most likely just a big bruise.

She gave the overall wound a good wash before settling back in her seat.

The silence seemed to fill her as she stared at John’s hand. It wasn’t pretty. Dried blood still crusted the sewn-up gashes, and the thread itself was hard from blood, and was a sharp contrast against the pale skin. The hand was slightly swollen and red, but nothing alarming to the young woman.

“I’m done,” she said. Her voice seemed foreign after all this time.

“Is he goin’ to be alright?” Arthur asked. The sound of his voice, for a short moment, was comforting.

“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “Go get Abigail, will you?”

Not long after, Abigail shuffled in. Her eyes were red with tears, swollen, and her face was splotchy. She wore a thick cotton gown and a thicker shawl over her shoulders. Her usually spotless black hair was tousled into a bun at the base of her neck.

“Is he okay?” she hiccupped.

Arya nodded sternly, grabbed the woman’s hand, and said, “If he starts to tremble, to have chills, nausea, or he starts to get really hot, you come find me. If he starts to hallucinate or vomit or to sweat profusely, you come find me. If his wound becomes black or blood red or if puss starts to come out of it, you come find me, understand?”

The dark-haired woman looked confused. She staggered on her feet, sat on the edge of the bed, and wept. “What’s puss?” she asked.

“White, creamy substance,” Arya answered patiently.

“Why would his hand go black?” Abigail continued, still weeping, her face in her hands.

“That would be gangrene.”

“Gangrene?”

“Listen, Abigail,” Arya said, going to her knees. “If anything appears out of the ordinary, you come find me.” She was holding the older woman by the shoulders soothingly, something Arya rarely did.

“O-okay,” Abigail answered, sniffing and wiping her tears.

“The important thing is that you keep him fed and hydrated,” Arya counseled. “He needs to eat and drink water. Not alcohol. Water.”

Abigail nodded. Lowly, she murmured, “Thank you.”

“I’ll come back to check on him tomorrow morning,” Arya assured, still on her knees, still holding the other woman. “I’ll make sure he’s able to use his hand again.”

Again, Abigail nodded. She shifted away from Arya and closer to her husband.

Arya stood, and when she left the tent to breathe in the cold night air, that’s when the exhaustion hit her. Hunger growled in her stomach and she could feel the dried walls of her throat aching for water.

Arthur stepped out to join her. “You can have my tent for the night,” he offered. “You and Sadie.”

Arya smiled tiredly. “That’s kind of you.”

They got stew together and walked around camp assuring everyone that John was going to be fine. Dutch asked about the mobility of his hand. In truth, Arya was scared that John would never fully recover the use of his hand, but she confidently told Dutch that she’d work towards full mobility. Grimshaw and Karen, stoneface and cold, asked about the well being of John, but beneath their demeanor, Arya could see the worry on their faces.

Arya and Arthur spent most of the night reassuring their friends. Bill felt guilty for not killing the bear, but Arthur took the blame right off his shoulders.

“You didn’t tell me exactly what happened,” Arya asked, sitting – finaly! – on a stump in front of a dying fire. Arthur sat on the ground beside her, finished his stew, and let the bowl clink beside him.

“Went chasin’ after a bear,” he started. “I was on my horse, lookin’ for clues. Bill was wandering around on the rocks for some reason. Then I hear this big roar and sound, like somethin’ crashin’ through the trees. I go runnin’. Then John’s screamin’, and when I get to him, he’s squarin’ up like he wants to fight the thing. Obviously, get’s wrecked. Bill shoots at it, and the thing just runs away.”

Arya smiled and huffed, “There’s only John to square up to a bear.”

Arthur laughed through his nose, but then his face went cold as he stared into the fire. Arya saw the shift and wondered why her own chest ached. “I thought he was goin’ to die,” he admitted lowly.

“But he didn’t,” Arya said.

“Yeah, because of Bill.”

“It’s not your fault, Arthur.”

“I know,” he said awkwardly. “It’s just… I just stood there, you know?”

Arya’s eyes glazed in empathy. “Sometimes shock takes away your ability to make decisions.”

“But that never happened to me before,” Arthur objected. “I’ve always had my finger on the trigger. I never hesitated. Never. And then, when it comes to savin’ John’s life, a moment more important than many I’ve had to fire my weapon for, I can’t.”

Arya nodded in understanding. She shifted on her log awkwardly. Sentimental conversations were not her forte. “You… you love John,” she mumbled. “Moments of quick action, crisis moments, change when it involves someone you’re afraid of losing.”

Arthur was quiet for a moment. The young woman stared at the fire but was very aware of Arthur’s presence beside her. After a pause, he said, “You’re right.”

A sigh left the woman’s lips. “You’re a good man, Arthur,” she mumbled.

He grumbled, groaned something, and then sighed. “How do you know all this doctor stuff anyway?”

“You think I’m a witch?” she joked.

Arthur laughed and the sound was music to Arya’s ears after all this silence. “If I had a right mind, I’d think so,” Arthur mused. “But I ain’t gonna burn you at the stake, young lady.”

Smiling, Arya offered, “I learned from my mother. She was a doctor.”

Frowning, Arthur turned his blue gaze onto Arya’s profile. “A woman doctor?”

“Uh- no, I mean, yes, but uh-,” Arya stammered, pushed her hair behind her ears. “She was – uh – a healer. You know. A herbalist. But she knew about surgery.”

Arthur huffed. He didn’t seem convinced by her answer. “You said a lot of words back there that I don’t know,” he grumbled, returning his eyes to the fire. “Your mother must have been a hell of a doctor then.”

“She was.”

The crackling of the fire took precedence. Arya’s mind was whirling. Images swooping in to disturb the peace she was staggeringly trying to keep. The faces of her mother and father oozed in and out of memory, but just like her brother, they were fading.

“You never told me what happened in Delaware,” Arthur said, breaking the silence. “Why you left. Why it was just you and your brother.”

Arya stiffened and suddenly, she was cold. She wanted to leave. The drying blood on her hands was not John’s but another man’s. Her throat was closing up.

“It’s not something I discuss,” she all but choked out.

Under the watchful and curious stare of Arthur, the brunette got to her feet and scurried away. The night cloaked the rising tears in her eyes and the way she curled into herself protectively. When she burst into Arthur’s tent, she flopped onto the bed. The smell of him – pinewood, fire smoke, and river water – made her mind burn with too many thoughts. Tears welled and poured over her cheeks. She curled into a ball.

The last thing she was conscious of before she fell asleep was the deep smell of Arthur Morgan all around her.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan oneshot #imagine arthur morgan #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan x ofc #arthur morganxoc #arthur morganxofc #rockstar games #Red Dead Redemption #Red Dead #red dead redemption 2

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reddeadtrash · 5 years

Text

Ghosts

GHOSTS MASTERLIST

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OC

Rating: M

Word count: 4117

A/N: enjoy

CHAPTER FOUR: PROFIT IN A SHITTY TOWN

Honey load up your questions And pick up your sticks and your stones And pretend I'm a shelter for heartaches That don't have a home

Arya made it back to camp by evening fall. Battered and bloodied from the train heist, she sauntered to her tent, ignoring the little celebration starting over all the money collected. The girl fished some water from a bucket and dipped her hands in it. She washed her face and chest; whatever flesh of hers had been speckled with blood was also crusted in dirt.

What she wouldn’t give for a nice warm bath.

She lay back onto her roll once she was clean enough. Sleep tugged at her senses, but she could nonetheless hear camp life around her. In between that vague place of sleep and wakefulness, Arya dreamt.

She sat beside her brother, his closeness bringing the reassurance it always had. Same colored hair. Emerald green eyes that crinkled at the sides whenever he laughed. Bright sunlight streaming on his features - the ones she thought she’d never forget, but after all this time, they were beginning to fade. And fading he was. The corners of her memories of him seemed to curl in like burning paper; less and less available for her to remember.

They were laughing, sitting on the porch of the home they shared. Before them, the horizon shimmered from the hot days of summer. The brunette wore a black union shirt and sandy jeans, and her brother kept teasing her that she looked like a boy, especially with that flat chest of hers.

They fought. Fist to face and elbow to ribs. They were covered in dried mud by the end of it, bruised and bloody noses, but laughing and panting, laying side by side under the burning sun.

And the happy memory faded. Just like him; curled in like burning paper. Ashes billowing away in a harsh, cold wind.

She was choking. No, she was being choked. Hands thicker than a bull’s horns wrapped around her throat effortlessly. The air in her lungs was cut short, her chest aflame. Spots danced in her vision, her legs kicking under her, hitting nothing but dried dirt. All she could think was her brother; where! Where are you? Help me!

Arya woke up with a start. Breathless, covered in sweat, she lay on her back, her right hand held to her aching throat.

Sadie was asleep beside her, but the tent flap was open to the night sky. Stars sprayed into the darkness like sugar. The reassurance of their presence was almost as comforting as the presence of her brother.

Arya tried to find sleep again but couldn’t. She was hot and damp, and her mind was too sticky with the freshness of her dream to let her delve back into it.

The night was cool and fresh when she stepped out of her tent. The camp was entirely asleep. They had celebrated, the lone bottles of whiskey proof enough. Even Javier was still by the fire, crumpled up in his sleep, snoring under his poncho. As she walked toward the remaining embers of the fire, she saw the guitar laying beside Javier. Logs had been moved so people could enjoy the warmth and the music.

Bringing up a small log into the fire, Arya thought she heard shuffling behind her. A hand to her revolver still tucked at her hip, she turned to the noise. Darkness greeted her and nothing but crickets to fill up the empty space. Shadows danced languidly across the glow of the fire, but none of them attached to a body.

She sighed, resting by the fire with her legs tucked underneath her. Thoughts swirled in her head like smoke. Her brother; his murderer. The blood dripping in thick beads between dirty floorboards. Empty green eyes. Emptiness inside her.

“They had quite a party.” One of the shadows ripped from the tree line. Arya’s heart sped in both fear and astonishment as she saw Arthur peel from the darkness to join her by the fire. She gave him a once over; dirty and bloodied boots, jeans, black buttoned blouse. His hat was hanging in the fingers of his left hand, sandy long locks of his hair messily pushed back behind his ears.

“You’re back,” she said, voice monotoned. It was more of a statement than a question, and so Arthur only grunted, sitting by the fire. The young woman watched him as he lay his hat on the grass, one leg folded under him, the other with his knee to the sky.

In the darkness, he smiled, but she never saw. All she saw was the suspicion in his eyes, which had been there since they’d found her in the mountains.

“What did you do with them?” she asked, gaze returning to the growing flames of the fire.

“I slit their throats.”

She winced, prayed that he didn’t see, and covered her emotion with a sigh. “You didn’t want to let them go?”

“There’s no honor in lettin’ a man go just so he can get himself killed by another.” Arthur scratched under his chin, his growing stubble shadowing his jaw, making it look as sharp as glass.

“Did you bury them?” A quick look at him told her the answer.

“No.”

“Well,” she sighed, “then that doesn’t make you an honorable man, now, does it, Mr. Morgan?”

He smirked, and this time, she saw it. Crinkle by the side of his full mouth. Amusement in his blue eyes. “Were you havin’ a nightmare?” he asked, to change the subject, and maybe, because she was getting too close.

“What?” Her face went slack, and she stared at him vacantly.

He pointed to her tent. “I heard you.”

Arya didn’t want to know what he had heard. She nodded. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had one.”

Again, he smirked and scratched the underside of his chin. “Well, I’ve got a pretty damn good remedy for ‘em, anyway,” he groaned. When the girl cocked her head to the side with a look of incomprehension, Arthur fished out a small bottle of whiskey.

“Can’t dream if you’re too drunk to even think,” she mumbled, feeling her mouth burning with the need to smile.

The silence that followed was heavy. Both stared at the flames, sharing nothing but their own idleness. The night lived around them; crickets and hoof sounds and rabbits in the long grass.

“I’m sorry,” he said lowly. “I’m sorry for sayin’ you were an O’Driscoll.” When she looked at him, she saw the remorse in his eyes, but something else. He still harbored the suspicion that there was something eternally off about her. He wasn’t wrong.

“I’m sorry for punching you in the balls,” she offered.

His suspicion made way for laughter. His full mouth stretched into a genuine smile that she returned only half-heartedly. Then he got to his feet, put on his hat, and mumbled, “Goodnight.”

BREAK

It was two weeks. Two weeks of just wandering around, doing things here and there. Arya spent most of her time with Sadie, helping out Pearson. She was a good huntress. Had been for years. With her brother, Arya had scoured New Hanover with him for days, bringing in elk and rodents for their homestead. She was skilled with a rifle as well as a bow.

All this hunting and stationary life was making her restless. Uncle and Karen were getting on her nerves. Dutch was being too evasive. Micah had disappeared to God knows where, bringing all kinds of trouble on his tail probably. Grimshaw was a real pain the ass. If she caught one soul not working, she was sure to let you know with the world’s loudest voice and gruesome insults.

So when she saw Uncle chatting with Karen, Mary-Beth, and Tilly about going into town, she jumped right on the occasion. By Dutch’s orders, they had been obliged to stay in camp or the surroundings. Going into town, Valentine, was forbidden until Arthur Morgan himself deemed that it was safe.

Morgan was in on this little trip. Arya and he were friends now. Gone were glares and smart comebacks. For two weeks, they had greeted each other cordially, like old friends; smiles and waves. But Arya was a woman who kept to herself and Arthur never shared more than he needed to. Hence why their contact never went further.

Yet, Arthur never stopped peaking at her. When she smiled, for him, it was like sun peaking through thick clouds. She smiled ever so rarely and never once did Arthur miss his chance at catching a ray of sunlight. His life, as it has always been, was darkness and the stars were not thick as sugar. They were rare; they were almost inexistent. He didn’t know what to do about the way his fingers curled with hunger whenever he saw her face, or what to do about the fact that his mouth went dry and his mind went blank when she lay eyes on him.

But they were friends now.

“Come on, cowgirl!” Karen cawed, her strawberry blond hair bouncing on the side of her face, glittering in the sun. The girl was well endowed, which meant she had much to show, and she was not covering herself at all today.

As for Tilly and Mary-Beth, they looked as proper as school girls.

Uncle was dressed in dirty rags that Arya didn’t even want to examine. As for Arthur, he wore a blue worker’s blouse, sleeves rolled up to reveal chiseled forearms and tan marks. His shirt was open under his neck; skin reddened by the sun.

Arya jumped in next to Arthur, who held the reins of the wagon. Uncle and the girls sat in the back, much to the former’s discontent.

“Got all dolled up for town, Mr. Morgan?” she teased, but her mouth didn’t stretch into the smile he so loved to see.

“I should say the same to you, missy.” He gestured to her attire; red blouse opened just enough to let the mind wonder. Let the eyes wander. Arthur cleared his throat and returned his eyes to the road.

“I’m not even wearing my evening gown,” she offered back sarcastically, a shadow of a smirk on her lips.

Arthur laughed. The trees gliding overhead made intricate light beams shimmer on his face. “Oh, and that changes somethin’?”

Still smirking, she said, “Keep your eyes on the road, cowboy, and stop talking about women’s wear.”

“Yeah yeah.”

Valentine was the definition of shitty. Arya had lived there with her brother, just an hour north. When he was alive, her brother worked as an extra hand to help build houses and buildings in Valentine. He worked with the carpenters while she worked at the general store as a seamstress, sewing anything and everything that came through that door.

“John looks like he’ll be alright.”

Arya turned to the man at her side and gave him a sharp look. “Yeah?”

“Scars don’t look too bad on him,” Arthur elaborated, whipping the horses. “Too bad we couldn’t save Davey.”

“You and John are close?” she ventured, looking out to the road.

Arthur shrugged. “Seems like it.”

Valentine loomed in the distance. So did memories. Arya’s throat felt suddenly dry, closing, and the imaginary fingers that had strangled her in her dreams seemed to be ghosting over her throat. As they rolled into the first wet and muddy streets, she saw specters of herself and her brother.

The post office, where their money came and went. The train, where they ridden all the way down to Saint-Denis one afternoon that they both had off. The saloon, where he had made Arya have her first drink.

“You alright, there, missy?”

Arya’s gaze met his; black on blue. “Yeah.”

She saw how he didn’t believe her, but she didn’t care.

They parked the wagon in front of the general store; which sparked weird memories for Arya. When she worked here, the shopkeeper had been so nice and welcoming to her. He was a warm man – Adam – and he always made sure she had something to eat before she left for the evening. He never overworked her, never underpaid her because she was a woman, and kept himself very respectful towards her.

“You wanna go in with me?” Arthur asked as he jumped down from the wagon effortlessly.

“I’ll go with Mary-Beth, I think,” she answered.

“Let’s meet back here in a bit, yeah?” Uncle rasped as he himself was wandering out to God knows where.

“Me and Tilly will start with the saloon,” Karen announced, strong voice of hers, while carrying along the ebony-skinned beauty.

“Okay,” Arthur sing-songed, “just stay outta trouble and don’t get yourselves noticed.”

“Come on, Tilly,” Karen mused, seeing as the other girl didn’t seem as amused as her. “Imagine we’re in Paris!”

Arya smiled, shaking her head at the contrast between Karen and Tilly.

“Come on, now, Arya,” Mary-Beth chimed, “let’s go see what we can find at the hotel.”

BREAK

After calling Uncle a parasite and being called unfocused, Arthur had successfully bought some cigars and was waiting out on the general store porch for the women to dig up some dirt. Uncle sauntered out of the store with a bottle of whiskey hanging loosely from his fingers. He offered it to Arthur, who took a generous swing, and sat beside him.

“It’s a funny world,” Uncle drawled.

Arthur made a noise at the back of his throat. All the while he was in the store, his mind had been with the caramel-haired, five-foot-three woman. He had to resist multiple urges to run out of the store, across the muddy street, and into the hotel to find her – to make sure she was alright. His fingers itched whenever he thought about something going wrong. His mind raced with possibilities. Many times, he had to remind himself that she could take care of herself very well. Arya Reed could probably handle a gun as well as he could.

He needn’t worry. But worry he did. And that, well, that made it all the more a funny world.

“This time in my career,” Uncle went on, “I pictured myself being married to an heiress.”

Arthur winced, covered it up with a cough, and searched the streets for any petite woman with an attitude and a holster. None.

Arthur had done the same dream as Uncle. When he was young, in love with Mary, and wishing on the stars to give him what he wanted. He’d wanted to marry her, to love her, to hold her through thick and thin. He’d wanted to see her full and swollen with his children and have pairs and pairs of feet running across their house. He’d pictured a ranch, or maybe a cabin by the water to teach the kids how to swim. Mary’s smile to greet him whenever he walked through the door. A dog. Love in a straw-filled bed.

All that was dust in the wind after Mary broke his heart. The pain – something he never thought existed – was like being stabbed inwardly. Blunt forced trauma. There was a darkness, a blank nothing, to replace his days following their breakup.

And then Isaac. Eliza.

There was nothing in the world that could tear Arthur out of his misery after them. Nothing in the world to make him love or even feel again after their bodies were put in the ground.

He’d dreamed. He’d dreamed well and fair and full of hope. Look where that had gotten him.

Somewhere during all of Uncle’s babbling and Arthur’s thinking, he managed to snooze. He woke to the sound of Mary-Beth talking.

“Gentlemen,” she cooed, “I think I’ve got somethin’ good.”

Arthur’s eyes adjusted to the light for an instant, then landed on Arya, standing with her hip jutted out. She looked almost angelic, with the sun wrapping around her figure like a halo. She’d pulled her hair into one braid, somewhere during the day, and fly-away hairs curled at the side of her face.

Arthur tore his eyes from her to bring them to Mary-Beth. Also, to avoid Arya seeing just how bad he was staring.

“Arya and I snuck into this fancy house,” Mary-Beth started, earning a look of concern and anger from Arthur. Now, his heart and head were burning with ideas of danger for not only Arya, but Mary-Beth. “We acted like servant girls. Usually works. Someone was sayin’ her sister was takin’ a trip from New York or someplace. Train full of rich servants headin’ to Saint Denis and then cruisin’ off to Brazil!”

Arthur was not impressed. “Okay.” He looked over at Arya, who had an eyebrow up, seeming to tell him he should listen more to what Mary-Beth had to say.

“A train laden with baggage and passin’ through a bit of deserted country at night as to get to the docks in time for the tides in some place called Scarlett Meadows,” she went on.

“Yeah, I know it,” Uncle whispered.

Arthur was beginning to see the plan. He scratched the bottom of his chin, nodding. The wheels in his head were turning.

“Yeah, yeah,” Uncle went on, “it’s right out near New Hanover. Real quiet out there.”

Arthur sighed, but there was something else there. Approval. “Sounds good.”

Mary-Beth and Arya exchanged a glance and a girly smile. Arthur had never seen Arya smile like that; all toothy grin, dimpled cheeks, and high eyebrows. He’d seen the smile she makes when she is filled with happiness – the one she gave Hosea in the Cumberland Forest. He’d seen her smile sadly or just out of politeness. He loved to see her smile.

But this smile, all squeaky and cute, like a puppy, made his insides pinch.

Tilly came running across the street just as Arthur was still gazing at Arya. The ebony girl, all smiles and goofy grins, came rushing up the steps.

“I stole some money!” she exclaimed.

“Atta girl,” Arya chuckled.

“Where’s Karen?” Tilly asked, frowning, concern on her pretty face.

Arthur stood slowly. Something turned in his stomach, churning, warning. His eyes scanned the girls before him – all wore a look of ignorance. Then he scanned the streets. From the people walking to work, to the women chattering by the saloon, and the horse masters prepping the animals.

“Where is Karen?” he asked lowly.

“She said she was going to go make some quick bucks,” Tilly admitted timidly.

Arya sighed, tightened her belt, and jutted her chin to Arthur. “You and I should go check the hotel.”

Arthur frowned. “Why?”

“And why can’t we come?” Uncle complained.

Arya rolled her eyes so hard that Arthur feared they’d stay stuck. “Because ya’ll can’t take a shot like Arthur and I,” she growled, “and you can’t come because you’re fucking useless!”

Uncle hollered. “It’s Lumbago!”

“It’s Lum-fucking-fake!”

“Okay!” Arthur intervened. “Arya and I will go to the hotel. Uncle, take the girls to check out the saloon.”

Arya and Arthur both watched the trio leave. When they were safely away, Arthur took a step towards the girl. “Why do you think she’s at the hotel?” he asked.

Again, the young woman rolled her eyes. “Because she’s going to make some quick cash…”

Arthur’s lips parted and he nodded. Oh.

The hotel was right across the general store. Inside, the teller was gone. Arya sighed, complained about disrespectful staff, much to Arthur’s amusement, and motioned to the upstairs.

“We should go see, right?” she asked. Her cheeks were slightly red. “I mean, what if, you know… we catch them in the act?”

Arthur shrugged. “Maybe we should just wait here until the teller comes back,” he suggested. “Then we can ask him if he’s seen her.”

Arya seemed to weigh the option. Eyes vacant, but mind aflame. Lips pursed, wet and welcoming. Arthur was staring again.

“That’s a good idea.”

But before they could sit on the seats by the entrance, one word caught their totally undivided attention.

“…money.”

Their eyes met in a heartbeat, brows pulled, questions ringing in their heads. The word had come from upstairs. Footsteps sounded above. Someone was having a conversation about money and that had both Arya and Arthur really interested.

Arya crept up the steps slowly, careful not to step on a squeaky floorboard. Three steps up and Arthur, who snuck behind her, could already hear better.

Whoever was talking was in a room, with the door wide open, careless of any wandering ears.

“They say there is a lot of profit in this,” one voice was saying. His accent was clear. Posh. Rich. Probably from Saint Denis. “In Saint Denis, they say letting such an opportunity pass is a sin.” There you have it.

“And how much would be my cut?” voice number two asked.

“If all goes well and the oil gets delivered to the docks,” voice one said. “You are looking at ten percent.”

“I want twenty.”

Well, that’s a fair enough negotiation.

“Fifteen.”

“Deal.”

Footsteps. Arya’s hand found home on Arthur’s chest. Heat bloomed in his body so fast and harsh that he forgot how to breathe. His skin prickled, his mind whirling. And suddenly, very suddenly, Arthur’s pants became way too tight.

She pushed him down the stairs, hushing. The footsteps were right beside his ear. There was no time to hide at the bath house door to keep hearing the conversation. Arya grabbed him by the arm, eliciting burning on his skin, and hauled him into the cramped space between the stairs and, at his back, the door to the storage room.

His chest was pressed hard against hers. He could feel her breathing against him. Both his hands were on each side of her head. This close, he could see every single beauty mark on her flesh, the redness of her cheeks, and her parted lips that looked oh so inviting. When he glanced down slowly, eyes hidden under his hat, he saw, between the openings of her blouse, the curve of her breasts. Her chest was shiny with a thin layer of sweat.

It took everything in him not to carry her up to one of those rooms and give her a piece of Arthur Morgan.

“When should we be expecting you, mister?” He jerked his head back to the task at hand.

Walking down the stairs was a tall man, bald, wearing a fitted and tailored black suit. He had an intricate mustache, the kind rich men bragged about, and held a black bag in his white-gloved hand.

Behind him, the teller was scurrying along.

“Well,” the rich man drawled, “you shall be expecting my men and I in three weeks. I will send a boy to let you know in advance. You should have rooms ready for us.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Oh, and since we’ll be here for a week with our wives before the entire ordeal,” the rich man added with a sly smirk, “have some girls stay at the saloon for us?”

The teller sneered. Arthur felt Arya shiver against him.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the teller answered vindictively. “Say hello to your wife now, kind sir.”

The man bellowed a laugh. “Thank you, Miles.”

Miles – the teller – disappeared in the bath house corridor as the rich man left the hotel.

Arya’s eyes, so dark, met Arthur’s. There was money to be made here, with Miles and this rich man from Saint Denis. This oil dealing, money laundering, rich man affair could clearly get them a good cut. Of course, details needed to be worked out. When and where was the money being handed? How could they weasel their way in and get it?

They had three weeks to find out what was happening. If this all went to hell, well, at least they tried.

“I call dibs,” Arya grumbled, still pressed up against him.

Arthur cleared his throat lowly, still very aware of his now really tight pants. “Dibs?”

She looked at him from under her brows. “You and I, dibs,” she said. “We get this thing. No one else. Right?”

“Oh, right, yes,” Arthur babbled.

Just then, they saw Karen saunter down the steps. She stopped at the bottom, counted four five-dollar bills, rolled them up, and stuck them between her generous bosom.

Then she slowly turned and met Arthur’s eyes. Then Arya’s.

A smile stretched on the blond woman’s lips.

“Well,” she breathed cockily, “the sight of you two makes me want to go at it all over again.”

Arya pushed herself out of the tight space and grumbled, “Gross, Karen.”

Arthur hung back, wondering if Arya had said that because of the pure raunchiness of what Karen had said or because it was him.

Did he stink?

#arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan #arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan oneshot #arthur morgan x ofc #arthur morganxoc #arthur morganxofc #Red Dead Redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rockstar games #Red Dead #imagine arthur morgan

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reddeadtrash · 5 years

Text

Ghosts

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OC

Rating: M

Word count: 2000

A/N: final chapter for today, then it’s weekly updates hunnies

CHAPTER TWO: HAVE FAITH

He said one of these days you'll get out of these hills. Keep your nose on the grind stone and out of the pills. See the ways of this world just to bring you to tears. Keep the lord in your heart you'll have nothing to fear.

“What fresh is hell did you bring upon me, now, Dutch?”

Arthur looked back from Dutch’s cabin, the harsh wind of the mountains whipping at his face. His cheeks were bitten red, skin around his mouth raw, and rashes had begun in the corners of his eyes. If they ever made it out of this mountain alive, Arthur would delight in the warmth of a good bath.

Mrs. Grimshaw stood in a tight black dress, breasts pushed up almost to her chin. Back in her first days, Arthur had found it particularly hard to avoid the old-woman’s bosom, especially when she put it on display as such. She had such fine taste in clothing, and she knew how to make people work, but it seemed that people were more scared of a nip-slip than Mrs. Grimshaw herself.

“What are you talking about, Mrs. Grimshaw?” Dutch asked, walking out of his cabin. The door clanged shut behind him.

“That girl you brought along,” Susan went on. “She’s impossible. Dresses like a man and doesn’t want any of the clothes I usually reserve for the girls. Where exactly did y’all find her?”

Dutch’s face split into a grin. “Oh, Mrs. Grimshaw,” he chuckled. “Let the woman be! We are headed out now anyway. Is everything in order?”

Susan’s face went flat. “Of course!”

“Then let’s ride!”

The entire caravan was on the move when the sun had barely made its ascent into the sky. Slow flakes trickled from above to settle onto Arthur’s shoulders, who was riding the last wagon. Beside him, Charles, and sitting among the stocks was Hosea and Arya. The latter was dressed in a huge black woolen coat she had taken from one of the men’s closet, a red union shirt, and black pants held with thin suspenders. She still had on those strange leather boots.

Arthur was pretending not to listen, but his soul still harbored the nameless doubt about that girl. When he sneaked a look back, noticing how she’d fashioned her hair into two braids running tight along the curve of her skull, her saw her bent towards Hosea.

“A train?” she was saying.

“We planned to hit it before coming down,” Hosea answered. He was wrapped in many woolen layers, but his cheeks were red, and his breath puffed out in thick white clouds. “We decided to take more time. Our dynamite line was broken anyway. We will settle down here, and then come back up to hit the train when we’ve got all we need.”

He must have been showing her a map, Arthur wasn’t sure, as he was looking forward. They were traveling further south, and the warmth was beginning to seep into his coat. They rode along the sharp decline of the hills some more, bodies jostling simultaneously, Arya and Hosea whispering on about plans and places. All of this was giving Arthur nausea. As they rolled down from the snowy tops and onto frozen mud roads, Arthur’s stomach roiled with doubt.

Telling her all these plans. All the places they had in mind to hide out from the law. Arthur didn’t like it. In fact, he never liked strangers. His mind had been trained to doubt everything. And now, his chest was burning, and he wanted to tell Arya to sit in the other wagon.

Just at the instant where he was going to propose it, the wagon shifted to the left and crashed onto its rear haunch. The sound it made, as they exited the Cumberland bridge, was metal and wood grinding against each other. Arthur made a deep sound in his throat, stopped the horses, and jumped down from the seat.

“Aah, I broke the Goddamn wheel!” he cried out in anger.

Everyone jumped down, gathering behind the wagon to examine the broken wheel. It lay against the wagon, out of its socket, soaked in mud.

“That’s an easy fix,” Arya mumbled.

Charles gave the woman a side look while Arthur bent beside the wheel. From his vantage point, he saw the weird exchange of eyebrow game between Charles and Arya, and then she sighed and picked up the wheel.

“Can you big boys hold the wagon up?” she asked, plunging her fingers into the dirt on the wheel to bring it upright.

Arthur’s growl stayed stuck in his throat. He nonetheless joined Charles to hoist up the end of the wagon. Straining, he watched from the side as Arya hooked the wheel back on and hit it with a few swings of her hips until the wheel clanged into place.

“There it is!” Hosea exclaimed, hands in the air. Arya’s face did something strange. It split and splintered into a smile, and Arthur saw just how white her teeth were, how full and red were her lips. For a brief instant, very brief, he forgot how to breathe.

He’d seen many beautiful women in his days. Blondes, brunettes, reds. Light skin and dark skin. Tall and short, stout and elegant. He’d seen the variety of body shapes, of eyes, of smiles, and of cheeks. He’d tasted those lips and caressed those curves. Arthur Morgan had been with many women that he considered beautiful, yet none could compare to his Mary. His Mary. Brown-haired beauty. Freckled nose and cheeks. Heart-shaped lips that always looked wet. His Mary.

Arya was coming quite close to eclipsing his Mary. That smile, dimpling her round cheeks, softening the almost perpetual angered look on her face, was going to be imprinted in Arthur’s mind for a very long time.

He found himself sitting in the driver’s seat, frigid fingers clutching the reigns, Arya and Hosea still talking it out in the back of the newly-fixed wagon.

By now, Dutch’s wagon was way ahead. Arthur had to follow the wheel tracks in the dirt to know the path, because dear old Hosea was too busy letting the new girl in on their plans. He thought about her running off in the middle of the night, bringing that breathtaking smile with her, and giving all that information to Colm.

Arthur spotted Javier hanging off the road.

“Climb on in, cowboy!” Charles joked.

Javier crumbled something in Spanish yet swung along the edge of the wagon to sit among the stock. “Miss Reed,” he greeted, tipping his hat towards Arya.

Arthur mulled that over. Arya Reed.

Somewhere in the afternoon, they’d arrived at Horseshoe Overlook. Susan Grimshaw had arranged every single little detail; the kitchen wagon, healing kits, and respective tents. Dutch’s monster of a tent, complete with the vinyl player and Molly’s things, gloomed on the outskirts. Hitching posts. Cleaning wagon. Empty tables. It looked like home, or as close to home as it could get. This was camp.

Arthur’s own tent was off beside Dutch’s, not far from the man’s protective glare. They’d spent a few days settling in, scouting ahead to see if the coast was clear. There were no lawmen in effect in the perimeter of camp, and the only bounty in town was on a dog slayer in Valentine. They were as safe as they could get.

Arthur had used the down time to hunt. Alone with his horse and his bow and arrow, he scoured through the lands. At peace, serene with nature, Arthur felt at home within the wilderness. The weather was chilly in the morning, but with the warm sun, it got very comfortable during midday. Nights were cold, but on good days, when the sun had become more than warm, the night tended to stay warm too.

When Arthur rode back into camp, his skin crusty and hair dirty, he smiled at the usual praise from the women.

“Good one, Arthur,” Karen cooed in that cracking voice of hers, motioning to the white tail deer on his horse.

“That’s gonna make some good stew!” Mary-Beth cheered, showing pink cheeks under the hot sun.

As Arthur hitched his horse and slid off, he spotted a caramel-haired woman sauntering against the blue horizon. Dressed in a mud-stained black union shirt and black pants, Arya was helping Sadie hoist tin bins of water to Pearson’s wagon. She kept readjusting her suspenders and flipping her braids behind her back. Mud had stained her cheek where she’d had absentmindedly wiped at her face.

The two women made a hell of a pair. Sadie with her rough ways and untamed attitude. Arya with a calm coldness that sent chills to the core of the soul. Arthur watched them interact; Sadie going on and on and on, while Arya nodded along with a look of murder written on her features.

“Arthur!” Dutch was calling him from his tent, waving and smiling.

Gathered around him were Micah, Hosea, Lenny, Javier, Bill, and Charles.

“Arthur, now that you’ve joined us, we can start the preparations for the train heist.” Dutch cleared his throat. “With the information so nicely provided to us by the O’Driscolls and Miss Reed, we know the train will be crossing into the Grizzlies.”

“We were just there, Dutch,” Micah grumbled. “Why couldn’t we hit it while staying there?”

“Because Bill’s stupid detonator was broken,” Charles answered, giving the former man a side glance.

Bill put his hands up. “It’s the detonator’s fault, not mine!”

“Now that everything is in order!” Dutch bellowed over the bickering. “We will ride tonight. Charles and Javier, you ride ahead right now to scout for us. I don’t want any surprises.”

The two aforementioned gave a sharp nod to the rest of the gathered bodies and walked off.

Dutch continued, “The rest of us will ride tonight. We will camp at the halfway point. In the morning, we will wait for the train, who, according to our information, arrives in the early afternoon.” He produced a small stack of papers from his vest and started handing them out. “Hosea has made makeshift maps if ever anything happens.”

Arthur grabbed his and was surprised when Dutch handed one to Arya and Sadie, who were quietly standing behind the group of men.

“Miss Reed and Mrs. Adler!” Micah sing-songed in that grim voice that was between a rasp and a growl.

“Probably a better shot than you,” Sadie grumbled back. Arthur smirked at the way Micah frowned deeply.

“Why is everyone convinced I’m a bad shot!” he growled.

“We leave at dusk!” Dutch exclaimed, before closing the flap to his tent.

Arthur watched as everyone dispersed. Sadie and Arya went back to their chores with Pearson. Micah disappeared to the edges of the cliff beyond the trees, twiddling something woody between his fingers. Hosea grumbled on about plans and money but stayed somewhat close to Dutch’s tent.

Arthur wasn’t sure if bringing the women on such a high-stake heist was a good idea. He had no doubt that they could fend for themselves, but he was still not sure if Miss Reed had clear intentions. As he thought that, he watched he roll up her sleeves and hoist up more buckets. She stopped once she held a bucket, cocked her head, birdlike, and in a swift motion, locked eyes with him.

Blue met black and Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly. He turned and walked off, thinking he should start preparing his bag for the ride ahead. All the while, he could feel the heavy dark stare of Arya burning holes into his back.

#red dead #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #arthur morgan #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan imagine #arthur morgan oneshot #arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan x ofc #arthur morganxoc #arthur morganxofc #angst

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reddeadtrash · 5 years

Text

Ghosts

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x OC

Rating: M

Word count: 3297

A/N: I will uplaod chapter two also, but then it’s weekly updates my dudes

CHAPTER ONE: THE DEER AND THE WOLF

You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey You're as sweet as strawberry wine You're as warm as a glass of brandy And honey, I stay stoned on your love all the time

Arya’s hands were freezing. Her entire body, mind you, was a total block of frozen ice. When Arthur noticed how strong her trembling was, he took off his gloves and handed them to her. Gingerly, she took them. Form his vantage point, Arthur saw the redness of her cheeks and the fullness of her lips. He didn’t know why, but his fixation went even further. Her eyes were actually a very deep brown instead of black. Her brows were thick but well kept, which was rare for women in his camp, and whenever she frowned, a crease formed between them. And her hair smelled of rainwater.

“Don’t want you freezing your fingers off, miss,” he grumbled. She gave him a look over her shoulder but accepted the gloves anyway. They looked ridiculously big on her, but if they kept her warm, Arthur had no problems.

They rode hard through the mountain. The snow had fallen so much that even the horses had difficulty managing through. The horizon was beginning to shimmer, dawn just on the cusp of breaking through the outline of the mountains.

“Where are we headed?” Arya asked.

Arthur felt a sharp pang in his chest. Something was definitely wrong about her. He felt it on the tip of his tongue, tingling in his fingers.

“Camp.”

They rode the rest in silence.

The shape of her body had begun to imprint onto his front by the time they saw the campfires of their home up ahead. And even though Arthur Morgan had sworn off women and physical contact a long time ago, he was still a man. Arya was voluptuous in a way young women were, and having her rubbing against him slightly with every jolt of his horse was making his body react in ways he didn’t want.

Camp began to slowly build around them. Javier holding guard far ahead. Charles and Lenny sitting by a campfire. Snow coated rooftops, ice crystalizing along the edges of the wood. Under inches of snow, carcasses of cabins lay astray, either eaten by mold or fire, Arthur couldn’t guess.

He began to take notice of the way people in camp were staring his way. Mostly at Arya. Abigail was holding Jack on her knees, brown doe eyes heavy on Arthur and the cargo he was carrying. Karen and Mary-Beth, who were supposed to be taking care of Davey and his grave, were standing, mouth half-open.

Arthur rode his stead to the hitching post, slid off, and hitch him. Arya casually slid off before he could gallantly offer his hand.

He watched her observe the camp. Her black eyes scanned the snow first, as if she was looking for footprints or clues. Then she examined the buildings, her lips moving slightly as if she was counting them off, one by one. She watched Uncle stagger out of Pearson’s cabin, Micah examining his gun too closely, and Hosea talking closely with Tilly.

When Arthur saw the very, very slight smile spread on Arya’s lips, he grabbed her violently by the arm and dragged her through the snow. A gurgled sound came from her mouth, the snow on her hair falling awkwardly into her face. Dutch and Micah took notice of the altercation, moving toward the scene, following Arthur.

The man brought her to the door of his own cabin, kicked it open, and swung her in. She landed on her side looking all the most awkward. Big blue woolen coat that she’d took off the O’Driscoll she’d murdered. Arthur’s black gloves that were obviously took big for her. Caramel mess of hair carelessly pushed behind her ears. A wild look in her swan eyes.

“Arthur!” Dutch came behind him, followed by Micah, and closed the door. The cold was crisper in there, rendered to the space around them. Their breaths came out in harsher white clouds.

Arya’s breathing was ragged as she crawled back slowly on her hands.

“What is the meaning of this?” Dutch demanded quietly, grabbing Arthur by the shoulders. The latter was slowly beginning to tremble, anger and doubt tearing his handsome features.

“Arthur’s got a hard on for the new kid,” Micah joked teasingly, his face turned low, looking at Arthur from under those thin white brows of his.

Arthur’s hand flew faster than he could think. In one motion, he had back-handed Micah so hard that the latter’s cheek was already reddening. With a squeal not unlike a school girl, Micah reared back, shoulder against the wall, hand cradling his cheek.

“You get that filthy mouth outta here before I make you regret even having a mouth!” Arthur growled.

“Arthur!” Dutch held him back using two hands against the big man’s chest. Arthur may have been big and tall, mean looking, and rough, but he was not immune to commands from his boss.

Arthur’s eyes zigzagged between Micah and Dutch twice, then down to Arya, who was watching the whole thing with a very deep frown.

“Micah, you should leave,” Dutch breathed, still not taking his eyes off Arthur, neither his hands.

It was only until Micah had sauntered outside, letting a bite of cold air in, that Dutch took his hands off of Arthur’s chest.

“Now would you please tell me the meaning of all this, Arthur?” Dutch demanded loudly, his dark eyes wildly searching his comrade’s face.

Arthur hesitated, motioning between the girl on the floor and the window. Words bumped out of his mouth. He was flailing.

“Don’t you find this all funny?” he blurted out. “We find some girl who knows how to shoot and kill. She has convenient information about Colm. Doesn’t hesitate to come under our wing?”

Dutch sighed heavily. His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose and he let out a very small chuckle. “Oh, Arthur,” he chortled. “I think the stress is getting to you.”

Arthur frowned so deeply that his brows seemed to connect under his hat.

“The stress?” he growled. Then he turned to the girl, still sitting on the floor. However, she was now loosely hugging her knees with her elbows, leaning back against the wall. Her head was cocked, bird-like, as if examining a very peculiar scene. Her face was stoic, as always, but she was frowning ever the slightest. “She’s too convenient!” Arthur exclaimed.

“If you don’t want me here,” she said in a very low voice, getting to her feet, ��I’ll just go.” She made to walk passed them both, but Arthur, once again, lay hands on her to throw her back.

“Convenient!” Arthur growled as Arya stumbled backwards. “Once she knows where our camp is, she bolts. Probably right back to Colm O-“

Arthur had been hit before. He’d been punched repeatedly. Slapped, pushed, kicked. Almost everywhere on his body, he’d received a blow.

He had never, however, been thoroughly punched right in the balls.

Bent in half, the breath knocked-out of him, Arthur heard rather than saw the scene unfold before him. Dutch burst out laughing as if the greatest joke of all time had been said. And the girl said one very peculiar thing to him.

“You want to talk about me running back to my brother’s murderer again, I’ll cut your dick off.”

Arthur coughed. The pain between his legs was a harsh throbbing. Dutch laughing in his ear was an insult.

“Okay, I really like her!” he was saying. “You’ve got fire, madam. You’re in! We’re headed down from the mountain soon, but as soon as we are settled somewhere… less displeasing, I’m all ears for that information of yours.”

Then Dutch grabbed Arthur by the shoulder. “Cut her some loose, my boy,” he said close to Arthur’s ear. “She’s lost, and we can help her as much as she can help us. Put that superstition away for now.”

“She didn’t have to do that,” Arthur grumbled back, gesturing to his crotch. He stood up straighter, wincing, eyeing the seemingly nonthreatening girl.

“Seems like I did,” she mumbled, arms crossed over her chest. She looked at him and that air of viciousness and rabid anger had left her features. Arthur saw no trace of the predator on her face. It did something strange to him. Instead of the threatening prickling on his skin, it sent a wave of relief through his chest.

He nodded, readjusted his hat, and made to leave. Before he was out of earshot, he heard Dutch say, “Have Mrs. Grimshaw take you over, darling. She’ll get you up to date.”

#red dead #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #arthur morgan #arthur morgan fanfiction #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan fanfic #arthur morgan imagine #imagine arthur morgan #arthur morgan oneshot #arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan x ofc #arthur morganxoc #arthur morganxofc #angst

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